I have the strangest experiences at the post office. Now, I love my postal workers -- they are the bomb -- but I have some really weird experiences AT the post office. Like the night the postage machine was possessed. Like the time I was standing in line and a little old lady drove her car right into the building.
So I went to the post office yesterday, to try to mail over a week's worth of shipping that had gotten delayed by some emergent happenings around the house. I even came home from camping to do the shipping -- that is how determined I was to get it done. So I had something like 11 packages to mail, and was happy to see when I got to the post office that there were actually some available parking spaces.
Keep in mind that this post office is really busy. It's one of a few in Indianapolis that do passports, so it gets more business than most. And the parking lot is a lesson in defensive driving. It has two routes, but neither are marked. Well, maybe three. You can drive straight in and park to the left of the building (the most safe option). You can turn right and STAY right and go to the drive thru mailbox area, then get the heck outta dodge. This is also a safe option, though it can get really irritating if you get behind someone who doesn't understand how a mailbox works. The exit is where this one gets tricky (more in a minute). The third option can be a little scary: turn right in the entrance, but stay to the left, and try to snag a parking place. This is tricky because if someone is backing out, they're gonna back right into you. And when you go to back out of your space, you can do the same, or get hit by someone who's too busy looking for a space instead of watching for you.
Keep in mind that options 2 and 3 exit the parking lot in the same place, so that's tricky too, because they merge together into two lanes. One is supposed to be a left turn lane only on the left, and right turn on the right side. People tend to go crazy getting here, and tend to want to be on the opposite side of where they are entering: parking lot people entering from the left want to be on the right when they leave, and vice versa. It's a little Keystone Kops, but most people can do it ok, with a little patience. Still, I've seen just about everything happen, until yesterday, which totally took the cake.
I was getting my packages out of the car when a lady in a tiny little car zipped IN through the EXIT, with a car coming from the mailbox lane, and an SUV coming from the parking lot. Drove against the traffic -- this is a NARROW space) and turned the wheel hard to pop into the parking space that the SUV was going for, narrowly missing them. Now, I don't usually confront strangers in parking lots, but I have had an awful week, and she irritated me. As in REALLY irritated me. So here's the exchange between us:
Me: "You know, this parking lot doesn't need any help with having accidents."
Her: 'Excuse me?"
Me: "You know, this parking lot doesn't need any help with having accidents."
Her: "Well, I was in a hurry, because the post office closes at noon."
Me: "The post office closes on Saturdays at 2:30, and you almost caused an accident."
Her: "I have an M.B.A."
Seriously? What? What the hell is THAT supposed to mean? You have an M.B.A., so you can drive like an idiot? Well, I have a nursing license, and after the week I've had, I'm liable to leave you bleeding on the ground if you pull something that stupid and then cause an accident. Ok, well, not really, but man, was I irritated. This, coming from a probably 60yo with a little blonde ponytail, who was wearing ACID WASHED SWEATS. Acid washed in a lacy pattern, no less. I didn't even know you could get acid washed sweats, and quite frankly, I could've gone to my grave not needing to see them. Add to that that at first I thought she had on platform tennis shoes, till I realized that she had on those "make your butt better" Sketchers, and I no longer had any use for anything she had to say.
She walked into the post office still happily muttering about how she wouldn't have rushed if she'd known they were up, completely unaware of my total disdain for her. She had an MBA all right -- my bitchy attitude.
I need to start shipping from home. The post office is clearly not a positive experience for me.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
The F word
Football is upon us once again. ::sigh:: So here was the conversation at the dinner table tonight:
::insert discussion between Dan and Thomas about going to Denver for Thomas' 21st birthday, when the beloved Broncos are playing the Colts::
Dan: "Seth, when are you going to become a football fan?"
Seth: "Well, Thomas started being a football fan when he was about my age. So it's either going to be soon, or maybe never."
Leaving it wide open, he is.
::insert discussion between Dan and Thomas about going to Denver for Thomas' 21st birthday, when the beloved Broncos are playing the Colts::
Dan: "Seth, when are you going to become a football fan?"
Seth: "Well, Thomas started being a football fan when he was about my age. So it's either going to be soon, or maybe never."
Leaving it wide open, he is.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Christine, Part 2
OK, well "tomorrow" is a nebulous term at our house.
When last I posted, Dan was locked out of his van, now aptly called Christine. The windows were open, but the doors were locked. I thought he was crazy, but when I went out there to see what he was talking about, the locks were obviously fighting against me unlocking them. It was spooky. The back door which hadn't unlocked with the remote for years, had started unlocking with it earlier in the evening, but now was securely locked. The keys hadn't worked in any but two of the locks for years as well, and if the locks wouldn't open by hand, they sure weren't going to open with the key - which likely would've snapped off in our hand.
So we did what all intelligent people do in this situation. We went to bed.
The next morning, he was still stuck. I went out with him and suggested unhooking the battery. I figured it might hit some kind of reset button and make them go back to factory settings or something. Well, it worked. Kind of. As soon as the battery cables were unhooked, we were able to unlock the doors. We even did a little high five. That lasted as long as it took to hook the battery up again, at which time those devilish locks slammed shut all over again, and once again refused to open.
The end result? Dan unhooked the battery, unlocked the door and opened it, then hooked the battery up again, got in the car, closed the (locked) door, and drove to his destination. When he got there, he had to disembark by climbing out the window. Now, this works fine for a physically fit painter, but that afternoon, he took off in my car and dropped Seth and his buddy at the movies. It didn't take long to realize that I was going to have to pick them up by using the same process -- two fifteen year old boys diving in through the front window of the van in front of the movie theatre. OK, well, we can get away with that, but no way was I gonna climb out that window once we got home. And the steam coming out of the vents was unnerving, not to mention probably very bad for my asthma.
I called Thomas and he picked the boys up.
It wasn't long after this that Christine went to auto heaven, also known as Haughville, where his Guatemalan painting buddy will probably perform some sort of miracle and get her running again. I just hope he doesn't lock her.
When last I posted, Dan was locked out of his van, now aptly called Christine. The windows were open, but the doors were locked. I thought he was crazy, but when I went out there to see what he was talking about, the locks were obviously fighting against me unlocking them. It was spooky. The back door which hadn't unlocked with the remote for years, had started unlocking with it earlier in the evening, but now was securely locked. The keys hadn't worked in any but two of the locks for years as well, and if the locks wouldn't open by hand, they sure weren't going to open with the key - which likely would've snapped off in our hand.
So we did what all intelligent people do in this situation. We went to bed.
The next morning, he was still stuck. I went out with him and suggested unhooking the battery. I figured it might hit some kind of reset button and make them go back to factory settings or something. Well, it worked. Kind of. As soon as the battery cables were unhooked, we were able to unlock the doors. We even did a little high five. That lasted as long as it took to hook the battery up again, at which time those devilish locks slammed shut all over again, and once again refused to open.
The end result? Dan unhooked the battery, unlocked the door and opened it, then hooked the battery up again, got in the car, closed the (locked) door, and drove to his destination. When he got there, he had to disembark by climbing out the window. Now, this works fine for a physically fit painter, but that afternoon, he took off in my car and dropped Seth and his buddy at the movies. It didn't take long to realize that I was going to have to pick them up by using the same process -- two fifteen year old boys diving in through the front window of the van in front of the movie theatre. OK, well, we can get away with that, but no way was I gonna climb out that window once we got home. And the steam coming out of the vents was unnerving, not to mention probably very bad for my asthma.
I called Thomas and he picked the boys up.
It wasn't long after this that Christine went to auto heaven, also known as Haughville, where his Guatemalan painting buddy will probably perform some sort of miracle and get her running again. I just hope he doesn't lock her.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Christine, Part 1
We drive our cars till they are dead. When he finally traded in his 1982 Datsun 200SX, his buddy came along for the ride, turning to him at one point to say "just let me know when you want me to get out and push, buddy." Once in a while, we revive one from the dead, too. Dan once hit a parked car with his old Grand Marquis, then took the insurance money, had it fixed, and drove it for another four years. And of course, there was the debacle that was our last trip to Tennessee. And then there is his current ride, ever after to be referred to as Christine.
His van is a Mercury Villager, retired from day to day family service some time back, when we bought the Town and Country. Dan's used it as his paint van ever since. Now, Christine has seen better times, and has had her share of dings: it was back into one time when a yuppie paint customer forgot that it was parked in the driveway - despite the fact that she had to climb over the painter's gear to get out her front door. That escapade ended with a new hood, which Dan painted gold, to go with the gold trim on the white van. There've been at least three other similar episodes, because there are large dents in three corners of the van. The turn signals frequently flash too quickly, because they tend to get filled up with water. The air conditioning gave up the ghost a long time ago, then suddenly started working again about three years ago. Like I said, that van has seen better times.
The kids have refused to drive it for some time, deeming it unsafe. They said that it wouldn't accelerate past 40 mph. Dan laughed and said "I drive that van on the highway." Thomas just shook his head, speechless. I drove it myself a month or two ago, for the first time in a long, long time, and was shaken by the experience. I was sure that a wheel was going to fly off and roll down the parkway, and I too took the vow to never drive his car. Dan thought we were all crazy, saying we just didn't know how to talk nicely to it, and that if you spoke to it with kindness, that van was just fine. Of course, that was before last week, when some kind steam/smoke/coolant started coming out of the vents, and he started having to travel with a pitcher of water handy. I think he was still hanging on to some kind of hope that perhaps it would fix itself, or show some kind of low cost solution to its ills.
Friday made a believer out of him.
He called me while I was at work and left me a voicemail saying "my car is possessed. The locks keep locking by themselves............oh, look at that, there they go again. I rolled the windows down and now they won't roll up. It's hissing and moaning and making sounds I've never heard it make. I think it needs hospice, honey, because it is dying." He went on to mention that he was borrowing Thomas' car to go and finish up a very small job with Seth, and then he'd be home for dinner. It was a couple of hours later when we headed back to give Thomas his car. *** (That's for later when I explain THAT story.)
We got to the parking lot where Thomas works, and Dan said, "look." He used his remote and unlocked the van. "Yeah?" I said. "What's the big deal." He held up his hand and said "wait. You'll see," and about thirty seconds later, the locks snapped shut by themselves. As in, no key in the ignition, no remote being used, by themselves. Freaky. He went round to the back of the van and used the remote to unlock it, mentioning that the remote hasn't worked on the back door of the van for several years. We had a laugh about how odd it was, and then took off toward home. That was when the noises started.
Hissing. Creaking. Moaning. Clanking a little bit from time to time. At one point, Dan cocked his head and said "wow, I haven't heard THAT one before." It was a little crazy. I mentioned something about it being a deathtrap, just as I noticed a wisp of white coming out of my vent. "What the heck is that," I said. "Oh, that's nothing," was his reply. "Look at this." He pulled away a towel that he had lining the area between the windshield and the dashboard -- right where the defrost works -- and a huge cloud of steam came up. "Good heavens, husband," I said, "You've gotta get me out of here before I have an asthma attack, or go up in flames."
It's a good thing we live close to where Thomas works, because two minutes later, we were home, standing outside the van, shaking our heads. And it was a couple of hours later when Dan came in and announced that he couldn't get in the van. He'd rolled up the windows for the night, and now the locks wouldn't unlock at all.
More tomorrow.
His van is a Mercury Villager, retired from day to day family service some time back, when we bought the Town and Country. Dan's used it as his paint van ever since. Now, Christine has seen better times, and has had her share of dings: it was back into one time when a yuppie paint customer forgot that it was parked in the driveway - despite the fact that she had to climb over the painter's gear to get out her front door. That escapade ended with a new hood, which Dan painted gold, to go with the gold trim on the white van. There've been at least three other similar episodes, because there are large dents in three corners of the van. The turn signals frequently flash too quickly, because they tend to get filled up with water. The air conditioning gave up the ghost a long time ago, then suddenly started working again about three years ago. Like I said, that van has seen better times.
The kids have refused to drive it for some time, deeming it unsafe. They said that it wouldn't accelerate past 40 mph. Dan laughed and said "I drive that van on the highway." Thomas just shook his head, speechless. I drove it myself a month or two ago, for the first time in a long, long time, and was shaken by the experience. I was sure that a wheel was going to fly off and roll down the parkway, and I too took the vow to never drive his car. Dan thought we were all crazy, saying we just didn't know how to talk nicely to it, and that if you spoke to it with kindness, that van was just fine. Of course, that was before last week, when some kind steam/smoke/coolant started coming out of the vents, and he started having to travel with a pitcher of water handy. I think he was still hanging on to some kind of hope that perhaps it would fix itself, or show some kind of low cost solution to its ills.
Friday made a believer out of him.
He called me while I was at work and left me a voicemail saying "my car is possessed. The locks keep locking by themselves............oh, look at that, there they go again. I rolled the windows down and now they won't roll up. It's hissing and moaning and making sounds I've never heard it make. I think it needs hospice, honey, because it is dying." He went on to mention that he was borrowing Thomas' car to go and finish up a very small job with Seth, and then he'd be home for dinner. It was a couple of hours later when we headed back to give Thomas his car. *** (That's for later when I explain THAT story.)
We got to the parking lot where Thomas works, and Dan said, "look." He used his remote and unlocked the van. "Yeah?" I said. "What's the big deal." He held up his hand and said "wait. You'll see," and about thirty seconds later, the locks snapped shut by themselves. As in, no key in the ignition, no remote being used, by themselves. Freaky. He went round to the back of the van and used the remote to unlock it, mentioning that the remote hasn't worked on the back door of the van for several years. We had a laugh about how odd it was, and then took off toward home. That was when the noises started.
Hissing. Creaking. Moaning. Clanking a little bit from time to time. At one point, Dan cocked his head and said "wow, I haven't heard THAT one before." It was a little crazy. I mentioned something about it being a deathtrap, just as I noticed a wisp of white coming out of my vent. "What the heck is that," I said. "Oh, that's nothing," was his reply. "Look at this." He pulled away a towel that he had lining the area between the windshield and the dashboard -- right where the defrost works -- and a huge cloud of steam came up. "Good heavens, husband," I said, "You've gotta get me out of here before I have an asthma attack, or go up in flames."
It's a good thing we live close to where Thomas works, because two minutes later, we were home, standing outside the van, shaking our heads. And it was a couple of hours later when Dan came in and announced that he couldn't get in the van. He'd rolled up the windows for the night, and now the locks wouldn't unlock at all.
More tomorrow.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Seth-anese at the dinner table
A dinner discussion involved something about high school valedictorians. Seth's response? "What's a valedictorian? Cause for some reason, every time I hear that word, I think of the janitor."
What???
To be fair, he did say that he knew what a valedictorian is. He just couldn't remember. And maybe hethought they scrubbed toilets after graduation.
What???
To be fair, he did say that he knew what a valedictorian is. He just couldn't remember. And maybe hethought they scrubbed toilets after graduation.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Bachelor life...it's not for wimps
Thomas moved out last year. July 13th, to be exact, but who's keeping track. Shortly after he moved, this kid, who did nothing but gripe about our dogs, went out and got himself a dog. A big dog. A big, clumsy, overly affectionate dog. Now, don't get me wrong, she's a sweetheart, but she is one clumsy canine, and when she comes over here, she creates quite a stir amongst our three dogs, all of whom are male and none of whom, I'm pretty sure, have ever seen a female dog at our house.
So Thomas decided he needed to move out of his little one bedroom apartment in order to give his dog more room to run. Or gallop, which is a bit more appropriate verbage. This past weekend was the time for the big move. Thomas did quite a bit of it himself, but needed more muscle for the furniture. I basically went and watched, but I did do a tiny bit of packing stuff for him -- only by request, mind you.
I was asked to throw some of the kitchen stuff into a bag, so he could just carry it to the new place. I was loading up the sundries when I came across an open jar of salsa. I pointed out to him that salsa is supposed to be refrigerated after you open it. "It is?" he responded, somewhat incredulously. I just shook my head a bit. Then I came across another open jar, this time jalapenos. Then I really shook my head, but I figured that maybe jalapenos don't go bad as quick, because of the acid, and maybe Thomas would never know anyway, because who could tell the difference between a bad jalapeno and a good one, since they're gonna tear up your gut anyway?
So we were talking about the terminal cleaning of the apartment, and Thomas mentioned that he will not miss cleaning his bathroom there, because it was really difficult. He said, "you know, that bathroom gets dirty so fast. I swear it gets dirty a week after I clean it." Uh, yeah. I mentioned that a bathroom really is supposed to be cleaned every day, at which point his jaw totally dropped. "No way," he said. "Yes, way," said the mother. Now, I am not the model of cleaning, Lord only knows, but not cleaning the bathroom for a week? The kid knows better.
Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, I tell you.
So yesterday, he mentioned that there were a few things left in his apartment, and it was a pain, because he kept needing things that hadn't been moved yet. "Like pens," he said. "All my pens are still at the apartment. And my washcloth." As in singular washcloth. I asked him if he only had one washcloth, which I know was not true on July 13th of last year, since I bought his linens as a moving in gift, and bought him four sets of towels AND washcloths. Well, apparently, he is down to only one, for reasons unknown (but may likely be related to said dog). He said to me, totally mystified, "you know, I just have that one, and it's gross. It's all stiff." I pointed out that adding it to his laundry might improve that situation. He looked at me totally blank and said "you have to wash washcloths?"
Good Lord.
I know this kid knows that textiles have to be washed, because he was doing laundry at the age of ten, and did a great job, so what he's smoking over at the new place, I will never know. He seems to have forgotten all of those early lessons he did so well at. He may just need to find him a little woman soon. One who is a domestic goddess, and has a high tolerance for domestic challenges. From what I can tell, his very life may depend upon it.
So Thomas decided he needed to move out of his little one bedroom apartment in order to give his dog more room to run. Or gallop, which is a bit more appropriate verbage. This past weekend was the time for the big move. Thomas did quite a bit of it himself, but needed more muscle for the furniture. I basically went and watched, but I did do a tiny bit of packing stuff for him -- only by request, mind you.
I was asked to throw some of the kitchen stuff into a bag, so he could just carry it to the new place. I was loading up the sundries when I came across an open jar of salsa. I pointed out to him that salsa is supposed to be refrigerated after you open it. "It is?" he responded, somewhat incredulously. I just shook my head a bit. Then I came across another open jar, this time jalapenos. Then I really shook my head, but I figured that maybe jalapenos don't go bad as quick, because of the acid, and maybe Thomas would never know anyway, because who could tell the difference between a bad jalapeno and a good one, since they're gonna tear up your gut anyway?
So we were talking about the terminal cleaning of the apartment, and Thomas mentioned that he will not miss cleaning his bathroom there, because it was really difficult. He said, "you know, that bathroom gets dirty so fast. I swear it gets dirty a week after I clean it." Uh, yeah. I mentioned that a bathroom really is supposed to be cleaned every day, at which point his jaw totally dropped. "No way," he said. "Yes, way," said the mother. Now, I am not the model of cleaning, Lord only knows, but not cleaning the bathroom for a week? The kid knows better.
Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, I tell you.
So yesterday, he mentioned that there were a few things left in his apartment, and it was a pain, because he kept needing things that hadn't been moved yet. "Like pens," he said. "All my pens are still at the apartment. And my washcloth." As in singular washcloth. I asked him if he only had one washcloth, which I know was not true on July 13th of last year, since I bought his linens as a moving in gift, and bought him four sets of towels AND washcloths. Well, apparently, he is down to only one, for reasons unknown (but may likely be related to said dog). He said to me, totally mystified, "you know, I just have that one, and it's gross. It's all stiff." I pointed out that adding it to his laundry might improve that situation. He looked at me totally blank and said "you have to wash washcloths?"
Good Lord.
I know this kid knows that textiles have to be washed, because he was doing laundry at the age of ten, and did a great job, so what he's smoking over at the new place, I will never know. He seems to have forgotten all of those early lessons he did so well at. He may just need to find him a little woman soon. One who is a domestic goddess, and has a high tolerance for domestic challenges. From what I can tell, his very life may depend upon it.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Minnesota or bust
Every once in a while, I have a package in the custody of the USPS go AWOL. I'm not sure what they do with them, but I push 'em across the counter and they go into the great beyond. I'm also a firm believer that some transactions with customers are just cursed.
So I had a cute little swimsuit pattern that wanted to go to Minnesota a couple of weeks ago. Where it is now, I'll never know, but apparently it changed its mind en route, because it's not been seen again. After a couple of emails between me and my customer, I decided it best to send her a new copy. And in trying to really have my act together, decided to mail it tonight.
Now, I live in Indianapolis, not too far from downtown, where there is a self service post office that's open 24/7. I try to go down there whilst the light is still out, but I tend to be there in the evening nonetheless, so I always try to take a male presence with me, like Dan. Or Thomas. Or even Seth. Well, tonight, Dan was otherwise occupied, so I decided to go by myself -- something I haven't done in a long time. It's kind of nice to have a second person there when you're mailing a lot of stuff, because it gets a little cumbersome otherwise. Dan and I (and Seth, for that matter) have a system down that goes like clockwork, so we get in and out pretty fast. There was even one night where we had a little tutorial with a newbie who was mailing a ton of stuff.
Well, the system went out the window tonight, because I was flying solo. No biggie, right? Well, I put the first package on the scale. Went through the steps, all the way to the stamp coming out. Only the stamp didn't come out. Just one little corner of it stuck out -- not enough to grab on to. The dilemma.......if I did it wrong, the stamp was going right back into the machine, to the tune of $8.50 or so. So, I did the prudent thing and used my credit card to try to coax it loose. That promptly sent it in further, so I got out my work ID, which is thinner than the credit card. POOF! The whole stinkin' stamp disappeared.
This was right about the time that a man walked in and gave me a very strange look. Now keep in mind, I am not a small person, and I am pale as a ghost. I was standing there in my ratty old short white shorts, a zip front short sleeve hoodie (new, at least), and Dan's flip flops, with my iPod ear buds in my ears, listening to Green Day at full tilt. And I was dancing, more than a little, because who can listen to Green Day and not dance? (Note to self, perhaps dancing caused the inverted stamp. Don't dance at the post office.) Anyway, said gentleman asked what was going on, as he put his mail into the box. He already had stamps. He suggested that I put a key in the machine and maybe that would work.
I think he wanted me to die, because I'm thinking that putting a metal key into an electronic device while it's plugged in is not the best idea. Maybe he was a serial killer. Or a cannibal.
I was seriously unhappy because the machine wouldn't let me cancel the transaction, which meant I was charged almost $9, but I couldn't get the stamp I paid for. Finally, in walked a guy in a security outfit, who asked what was going on. He got out a penlight and somehow got the machine open enough to free that stamp, then wandered off. I was pretty sure he was the stereotypical "friendly" security guard from the movies, who comes back and kills you and carts you off in pieces, but he never came back. He had a bag of chips in his back pocket. Maybe he waits till after dinner to kill people, but he got me my stamp, so I was happy. Even if I wasn't dancing at this point.
One package down. Next, I had to mail a package that contained Jill's birthday presents to her boyfriend (YAY! Apparently she's not going to be a cat lady after all!). That went without a hitch. Whew! Maybe I'd get home in one piece after all, but it was getting dark and I wanted to get the heck outta dodge. Next package was one pattern, going to a person in Burbank, California who, from what I can tell, does indie films. Maybe it's for a movie, I don't know, but the package deserved its own plot, because once again, the eject button wasn't working and the stamp didn't bother to emerge at all. And a metal door flipped down in front of where it was supposed to come out, like some kind of force field that says "not tonight, lady." The monitor assured me that I was not being charged for the transaction, despite the fact that the machine was now out of order. Good God. And I still hadn't mailed the Minnesota swimsuit that was the whole reason for me being at the post office in the first place.
I was mulling over my dilemma when in walked a lady wearing jeans shorts, a decent tan, and orange Crocs. I got no small amount of satisfaction in knowing that at least if I was gonna die, I wasn't gonna die in orange Crocs. And I was gonna die listening to Green Day. I could see the headline: "Braless albino woman dies, clinging to self serve machine, while 'Do You Know the Enemy played on her iPod." Irony. Yep, that'd be me. I told the orange shoe lady that the machine said it was now out of order, because I was trying to be helpful and not let her go through the problems I'd had.
She walked right up, got two sheets of stamps, then looked at me like I was an American Idiot, and strode outta the post office. Good heavens. I decided to try again, this time starting with that swimsuit pattern, against which I was planning to win the war. That package was going to Minnesota, come hell or high water. I got all the way through the process and held my breath. The stamp came out with just enough of a corner sticking out that I could grab it.
I put it on the wrong envelope.
Had to go back and print another stamp for Minnesota, then figure out how to get the postage right for the other package without paying for the whole thing. I only needed 17 cents, for heaven's sake, because I'd already put $2.07 on the envelope. I had to give myself a tutorial on how to print partial postage from the machine, but I finally got it done and went out of there as fast as I could, because I really just wanted to get home. Got to the car right as a man got out of his car across the parking lot. The now dark parking lot. Be careful, I was thinking, because although I'm not a truly paranoid person like some of my friends, I am careful. I was thinking to myself, "he's on crutches, and Ted Bundy used to use crutches to rope 'em in, so wouldn't that be crazy if he is faking it. And I don't have my cell phone, so there will be no pinging of my phone to trace my lifeless body when I'm lying in a ditch somewhere."
I probably need therapy.
It was right about then that I realized that the guy was probably about 80. He was also missing a leg. Yep. Legless serial killer. I wonder if that would be a first. And I wonder -- could Ted Bundy have figured out a way to fake an amputation? I was still pondering that one when I cranked up the Gaga and took off for home.
Next time I need to go to the post office, someone's going with me. And let's hope that the swimsuit makes it to Minnesota, cause I'm not sure I can go through this mess again.
So I had a cute little swimsuit pattern that wanted to go to Minnesota a couple of weeks ago. Where it is now, I'll never know, but apparently it changed its mind en route, because it's not been seen again. After a couple of emails between me and my customer, I decided it best to send her a new copy. And in trying to really have my act together, decided to mail it tonight.
Now, I live in Indianapolis, not too far from downtown, where there is a self service post office that's open 24/7. I try to go down there whilst the light is still out, but I tend to be there in the evening nonetheless, so I always try to take a male presence with me, like Dan. Or Thomas. Or even Seth. Well, tonight, Dan was otherwise occupied, so I decided to go by myself -- something I haven't done in a long time. It's kind of nice to have a second person there when you're mailing a lot of stuff, because it gets a little cumbersome otherwise. Dan and I (and Seth, for that matter) have a system down that goes like clockwork, so we get in and out pretty fast. There was even one night where we had a little tutorial with a newbie who was mailing a ton of stuff.
Well, the system went out the window tonight, because I was flying solo. No biggie, right? Well, I put the first package on the scale. Went through the steps, all the way to the stamp coming out. Only the stamp didn't come out. Just one little corner of it stuck out -- not enough to grab on to. The dilemma.......if I did it wrong, the stamp was going right back into the machine, to the tune of $8.50 or so. So, I did the prudent thing and used my credit card to try to coax it loose. That promptly sent it in further, so I got out my work ID, which is thinner than the credit card. POOF! The whole stinkin' stamp disappeared.
This was right about the time that a man walked in and gave me a very strange look. Now keep in mind, I am not a small person, and I am pale as a ghost. I was standing there in my ratty old short white shorts, a zip front short sleeve hoodie (new, at least), and Dan's flip flops, with my iPod ear buds in my ears, listening to Green Day at full tilt. And I was dancing, more than a little, because who can listen to Green Day and not dance? (Note to self, perhaps dancing caused the inverted stamp. Don't dance at the post office.) Anyway, said gentleman asked what was going on, as he put his mail into the box. He already had stamps. He suggested that I put a key in the machine and maybe that would work.
I think he wanted me to die, because I'm thinking that putting a metal key into an electronic device while it's plugged in is not the best idea. Maybe he was a serial killer. Or a cannibal.
I was seriously unhappy because the machine wouldn't let me cancel the transaction, which meant I was charged almost $9, but I couldn't get the stamp I paid for. Finally, in walked a guy in a security outfit, who asked what was going on. He got out a penlight and somehow got the machine open enough to free that stamp, then wandered off. I was pretty sure he was the stereotypical "friendly" security guard from the movies, who comes back and kills you and carts you off in pieces, but he never came back. He had a bag of chips in his back pocket. Maybe he waits till after dinner to kill people, but he got me my stamp, so I was happy. Even if I wasn't dancing at this point.
One package down. Next, I had to mail a package that contained Jill's birthday presents to her boyfriend (YAY! Apparently she's not going to be a cat lady after all!). That went without a hitch. Whew! Maybe I'd get home in one piece after all, but it was getting dark and I wanted to get the heck outta dodge. Next package was one pattern, going to a person in Burbank, California who, from what I can tell, does indie films. Maybe it's for a movie, I don't know, but the package deserved its own plot, because once again, the eject button wasn't working and the stamp didn't bother to emerge at all. And a metal door flipped down in front of where it was supposed to come out, like some kind of force field that says "not tonight, lady." The monitor assured me that I was not being charged for the transaction, despite the fact that the machine was now out of order. Good God. And I still hadn't mailed the Minnesota swimsuit that was the whole reason for me being at the post office in the first place.
I was mulling over my dilemma when in walked a lady wearing jeans shorts, a decent tan, and orange Crocs. I got no small amount of satisfaction in knowing that at least if I was gonna die, I wasn't gonna die in orange Crocs. And I was gonna die listening to Green Day. I could see the headline: "Braless albino woman dies, clinging to self serve machine, while 'Do You Know the Enemy played on her iPod." Irony. Yep, that'd be me. I told the orange shoe lady that the machine said it was now out of order, because I was trying to be helpful and not let her go through the problems I'd had.
She walked right up, got two sheets of stamps, then looked at me like I was an American Idiot, and strode outta the post office. Good heavens. I decided to try again, this time starting with that swimsuit pattern, against which I was planning to win the war. That package was going to Minnesota, come hell or high water. I got all the way through the process and held my breath. The stamp came out with just enough of a corner sticking out that I could grab it.
I put it on the wrong envelope.
Had to go back and print another stamp for Minnesota, then figure out how to get the postage right for the other package without paying for the whole thing. I only needed 17 cents, for heaven's sake, because I'd already put $2.07 on the envelope. I had to give myself a tutorial on how to print partial postage from the machine, but I finally got it done and went out of there as fast as I could, because I really just wanted to get home. Got to the car right as a man got out of his car across the parking lot. The now dark parking lot. Be careful, I was thinking, because although I'm not a truly paranoid person like some of my friends, I am careful. I was thinking to myself, "he's on crutches, and Ted Bundy used to use crutches to rope 'em in, so wouldn't that be crazy if he is faking it. And I don't have my cell phone, so there will be no pinging of my phone to trace my lifeless body when I'm lying in a ditch somewhere."
I probably need therapy.
It was right about then that I realized that the guy was probably about 80. He was also missing a leg. Yep. Legless serial killer. I wonder if that would be a first. And I wonder -- could Ted Bundy have figured out a way to fake an amputation? I was still pondering that one when I cranked up the Gaga and took off for home.
Next time I need to go to the post office, someone's going with me. And let's hope that the swimsuit makes it to Minnesota, cause I'm not sure I can go through this mess again.
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